


and so the binding is made

by lordslytherin



Series: binding verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s, 1950s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Department of Mysteries, Finding Family, Handfasting, Knights of Walpurgis, M/M, Magical Accidents, No Dumbledore Bashing, Parselmagic, Parseltongue, Soul Bond, Time Travel, Tomarry Big Bang 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordslytherin/pseuds/lordslytherin
Summary: After Dumbledore's death, Harry Potter causes a magical accident that leaves him stranded in 1944.Positives: The Potters want a child as much as he wants a family.Negatives: Between Harry's luck and Tom Riddle's tendency to make catastrophic decisions without knowing all of the possible side effects, their relationship is a disaster waiting to happen. But they make it work. Mostly. Moral of the story is, Harry should probably have told Tom no when he suggested making their wedding vows in Parseltongue.





	and so the binding is made

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are, folks! This is my first fic posted on AO3 as well as the longest fic I've ever written.
> 
> I am super grateful to the mod of the Tomarry Big Bang for working with me on the deadline.
> 
> But the biggest shoutout goes to my very talented artist, @moonlight-modoki on tumblr. They're amazing!
> 
> There might be some slight editing of this fic later but that shouldn't affect the content, just typos and the like.

Harry had never been a violent individual.

He was good at defense, yes, and he enjoyed the challenge of it, but he'd never been one for violence for violence’s sake. He'd spent too much of his childhood dodging his cousin for that.

Right now, however, Harry was seriously considering changing his stance on the subject in order to murder his husband. Strangulation, maybe. That seemed much more satisfying than the Killing Curse. It was more intimate, took more than a second, and still had the added bonus of not getting any blood on his clothes.

It wouldn't be permanent, of course, but by the time Tom had managed to get a body back, Harry would have had enough time to calm down. Probably. Eh, maybe.

Although it would be a damn shame if Tom had to come back either pretty but sixteen or as an adult but snake-faced. Harry doesn't like to think of himself as overly shallow, but considering that he will be married to the man for the rest of his life--which it seems might last indefinitely--he does have some standards.

This whole mess could be traced back to his second year, really.

Before that, things were much less complicated. Until he was eleven, he didn't have any concept at all of the existence of anyone who went by the names Tom Riddle, You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Be-Named, or Lord Voldemort. Then, during first year, Voldemort was a villain, grotesque and evil and irredeemable, that had to be defeated by eleven-year-olds wielding the power of love.

Meeting the Diary had complicated that image more than Harry had wanted to admit at the time. Harry had genuinely liked Tom Riddle, had trusted him enough to let the memory-boy show him the Hogwarts of fifty years ago. Even in the Chamber, it had taken him an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that Tom had no intention of helping him save Ginny's life. Harry hadn't hesitated to destroy the diary to save Ron's sister, but a part of him had regretted losing Tom, even if the boy he knew had only been the mask that hid a monster.

In retrospect, there had been more to it than that.

In second year, he hadn't figured out yet that he was bisexual. Oblivious child that he was, it hadn't quite occurred to him that liking boys was an option. Though, to be fair, he hadn't exactly started noticing girls for another couple of years, either.

What he did notice was that Tom Riddle was handsome. It was just a fact of life that he didn't really question. Gilderoy Lockhart was a terrible Defense Professor, the entire school thought Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, and Tom Riddle was handsome.

Even then, the attempted murder via thousand-year-old snake--and his parents' actual murder, ten years past or forty years too early--was rather a turn off, and he put aside any thoughts about Tom Riddle's handsome face for the next few years.

Fourth year he had finally figured out he was bisexual, an incredibly awkward process that involved the uniquely bi struggle of finding both Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory terribly attractive.

And then Cedric was gone, torn away from him, and Voldemort returned-- monstrous and brutal and lacking everything that had drawn Harry to Tom Riddle. In a way, that made things easier. With Voldemort’s appearance just as grotesque as his soul, Harry was able to safely hate him without being haunted by the lingering feelings of hurt from a friend’s betrayal.

Dating Cho had seemed like a good idea his fifth year. In the end, they both felt too much and too little, and the gaping hole that Cedric’s death left between them was too much for them to bridge.

Sixth year, he had been reintroduced to the problem of Tom Riddle through the memories Dumbledore shared with him, and this time it was worse than ever. This time, he wasn’t twelve, innocently admiring the beauty of his older friend. This time, he knew what it felt like to experience attraction, and he hated that he was attracted to his parents’ murderer. He tried to shove it down, but he couldn’t help but linger on elegant fingers and aristocratic cheekbones and perfectly styled hair.

Worse than that, as much as Harry hated Riddle for what he had done and who he had become, he couldn’t help but empathize with the boy who had grown up in poverty and fear, just like him. The boy who had desperately searched for anything to tie him to the family he had never known, just like him. The boy who must have felt the rejection of his living family keenly, just as Harry had. Harry would never kill the Dursleys the way Tom had killed the Riddles, but he understood the emotions behind that reaction. Even after years at Privet Drive, he still caught himself wondering at times why his aunt and uncle couldn’t have loved him. It still hurt, even though it was an old wound, long scabbed over.

But in the end, Tom Riddle had made his choices, and Harry had to make his. He couldn’t sit back and watch Voldemort threaten everyone and everything he loved, so he had to act.

And that should have been the end of it.

However, in Harry’s experience, life tended to take “should have” and throw it out the fucking window.

* * *

Losing Dumbledore felt almost as bad as losing Sirius had the year before. Harry had so few people who saw him as a person and not just a symbol to love or hate interchangeably. Dumbledore was like how he thought having a grandfather might be, someone older who finds time to speak with you and give you advice. Someone who offers you sweets when you visit them. That image had been threatened last year, when Dumbledore had ignored him, but it had been repaired with the conversation they’d had after Harry had trashed the headmaster’s office in his anger and grief and by Dumbledore’s inclusion of Harry in the war effort this past year. Harry’d fought with him over his trust in Snape, still, and that stung even more after what had happened. Why, why had Dumbledore trusted the traitor?

Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were a great comfort to Harry in the days leading up to the funeral, and he spent as much time as he could with them, but he still oscillated between feeling everything and feeling nothing.

The locket was a fake. Dumbledore had died for nothing.

Snape was a traitor, a murderer. Snape was the Half-Blood Prince that Harry had admired and defended.

Harry felt like he was going mad, sometimes.

It had been the conversation, the honest sharing of information, that had helped him in Dumbledore’s office last year, more than throwing priceless artifacts around. But Dumbledore was gone--that was the whole problem--and Harry was sick and tired of feeling like this. Throwing shit around felt like a good idea just then, and Harry knew where he could find the perfect opportunity.

He told his friends that he needed some time to himself, and they let him go.

Hermione looked worried for him, but she smiled weakly and reminded him to be back for dinner. Ron’s cheerful “See you later then, mate” was only a little forced. Ginny kissed his cheek as he got up to leave and told him that she would be around if he changed his mind.

The walk to the Room of Requirement was eerily silent, as even the ghosts and portraits had picked up the somber mood in the castle. Harry fiddled with the fake horcrux in his pocket, anger rising as he gave in to the tumult of his thoughts.

_I need the room where I hid the potions book, _he thought intently. _I need the room where I hid the potions book. I need the room where I hid the potions book._

When he opened the door, the room was just as he remembered from his desperate rush to hide the Prince’s book from Snape. The vaulted ceilings, the city of books and cabinets and broken furniture--

Harry clenched his fists and stalked over to the cabinet where he had hidden _Advanced Potion-Making_. He pulled the door open with such force that it knocked the tiara and wig right off the bust he had set them on. Reaching behind the cage with the skeleton of the five-legged creature, he pulled out the Half-Blood Prince’s book. He had gone to such trouble to save it, and now it disgusted him.

He screamed in frustration, throwing the book across the room. As it landed, he could hear the distinctive sound of paper complaining its mistreatment. Good. He hoped it was damaged.

He picked up another item, some sort of trinket, and threw that. Then he picked up another, and another.

A glimpse of silver at his feet caught his eye, and he reached down to pick up the gaudy tiara. Putting all his effort into the throw, Harry launched the tiara across the room, watching with satisfaction as it crashed against one of the stacks of junk, knocking it over.

The next second, a bright light suddenly blinded him, and he felt a familiar pulling sensation under his navel, like a portkey.

_Fuck_, Harry thought. _I didn’t think this one through. Hermione’s gonna kill me._

* * *

For all of the shenanigans he'd managed to get up to since starting Hogwarts, Harry had very little experience actually dealing with the immediate fall-out. It seemed like everything happened at the end of the school year, and then he was packed off to the Durselys'. Fifth year had been extended fall out from Voldemort's resurrection, but he had still been sent back to the Dursleys' in the meantime.

Sitting across from an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries in 1944, he felt distinctly out of his depth.

He had fucked things up even worse than he had managed already, getting Sirius and Dumbledore killed and almost killing Malfoy with Snape’s spell.

He hadn’t kept his half-hearted promise to Hermione to be back for dinner. He would never see Ron “later.” He had changed his mind about being alone, but Ginny wasn’t waiting in the Gryffindor Common Room for him.

His emotions still see-sawed between grief and apathy, but the later increasingly held more weight.

He was stuck. He was stuck in 1944, before his parents were born, maybe when his grandparents were younger than him-- no one had ever told him when his grandparents were born. He’d never really thought about that, before. They must be alive already, though, to have his father in 1960. Harry didn’t even know their names.

Five years in the Wizarding World, and he hadn’t thought to ask anyone what his grandparents’ names were. Sirius had been happy to talk about them, but he’d always called them Mr. and Mrs. Potter.

Harry could find out now, he supposed. He’d have plenty of time. He’d been in the care of the Department of Mysteries for three weeks now, and they’d determined that he’d have to return to his own time the long way: by living it. That is, if nothing changed. By the time 1997 rolled around again, he would be pushing 70, and the world might be a very different place than he remembers.

The Harry he’d been before Dumbledore died would have raged against the Unspeakables’ conclusions. He wouldn’t have ever given up on finding a way back to Ron and Hermione and Ginny and the others. But Harry was tired. He’d lost too damn much, and it wasn’t like he’d find anything the Unspeakables wouldn’t. He didn’t have Hermione’s research skills.

So, he would live. He would put one foot in front of the other, and if he got a chance to make the world a better place, he would take it.

Finally getting to walk around Diagon Alley without anyone recognizing him might even be nice, if it hadn’t come at such a cost.

Shifting in his hard wooden chair, Harry stared across the desk at the Unspeakable he’d labelled #3. “So, how am I going to explain a sixteen-year-old suddenly appearing out of thin air?”

Number 3 ignored the sarcastic tone of his question. “We’ve got all of that sorted out. All we need now is a little information from you. From now on, you're the half-blood son of a Muggle-born witch who was home educated by tutors and who, until recently, worked in the Department of Mysteries. She lived in the Muggle world and kept largely to herself. You're not unfamiliar with Wizarding Britain, but neither are you part of the social scene and therefore someone to be noticed. Your mother has recently passed away, making new arrangements for your guardianship necessary.”

Harry frowned. “Does the Wizarding World not have emancipation?”

“This will work out better for you in the long run, trust me. You'll want someone to have your back. Wizarding society is not kind to outsiders.”

“Then why did you literally make me the biggest outsider you could while still keeping me a half-blood?” Harry burst out, frustrated.

“To explain your absence while also giving you an in,” Number 3 explained. “Tell me, what was your mother's name?”

“Lily. Lily Evans Potter.”

The Unspeakable made a notation. “Lily we can keep, but you'll need a new surname. Something you identify with but that won't step on any toes, preferably. This will be the name you've been using for sixteen years, you'll have to be able to answer to it.”

Harry thought about his mum, the brilliant Muggle-born witch he never had a chance to know. He thought of another Muggle-born witch, one of his most precious people. “Granger, I think. My friend Hermione wouldn't mind if I borrowed it.”

“Harry Granger it is, then. And I'm correct in thinking you remember nothing of your mother?”

“I remember her death when dementors get close to me. She begged for my life.”

Number 3 looked rather uncomfortable, for once, but continued with his explanation. “You'll need to have a clear picture of your mother and your relationship with her. Fond memories, everyday habits. As she was the person you would have been closest to, she'll be a weak point in your story if you let her. I recommend drawing from what you know about Lily Evans as well as from any mother figures you've known. You don't want it to be forced, either.”

Harry nodded absently, thinking of Mrs. Weasley. “But what about my dad? What am I supposed to say about him?”

The Unspeakable lit up. “That's the truly clever part about all of this. The Potters will be your ‘in’ to Wizarding society in the 40s. But I'm not the proper person to explain all of that. If you'll come with me, I'll introduce you to your guest.”

With that, Number 3 stood abruptly and hurried down the hall, making Harry grateful for six years of Quidditch reflexes and over a decade of experience running from Dudley. When they reached a certain door, which looked to Harry like any other unlabeled door in the Department, the Unspeakable ushered Harry inside with little ceremony and promptly made himself scarce. So much for ‘introducing’ Harry to ‘his guest.’

The only other inhabitant of the room was an older gentleman, dressed in well-made but not overly extravagant clothes. He looked to be about Professor McGonagall’s age, Harry thought, although it was difficult to tell with wizards and witches.

“What is your name, lad?” The man asked, breaking the silence.

“Ah, it's Harry. Sir. Harry James Potter.”

“Is it, indeed.”

“Um, yes?” Less than a minute into the conversation, and Harry was already tripping over his own metaphorical feet.

The man smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “You have no earthly idea who I am, do you, lad?”

“Uh…” Harry squinted at him. The man did look vaguely familiar. According to Number 3, he was a Potter. Wizarding families did tend to have a fairly strong resemblance, so Harry figured that explained any recognition he might feel, but…

Suddenly Harry knew that he had, in fact, seen this man's face before. “My first year! There was this mirror, the Mirror of Erised, that shows you your greatest desire. It showed me my family, and you were one of the people standing in the back.”

If anything, that explanation seemed to make the man (Mr. Potter?) even more concerned. “Harry-- if I may call you that?”

Harry nodded.

“Harry, lad, why is it that your greatest desire as an eleven year old was your family, a family you clearly didn't recognize?”

This might just be the first time Harry had ever had to explain his own history. “Well, my parents were killed when I was a baby, you see, by a Dark Lord. I grew up with my mum’s Muggle sister, and Aunt Petunia doesn't approve of magic--”

The man interrupted him. “Why, by Merlin’s great name, would a child of the Potter family ever, for any reason, be left to be raised by Muggles? That is incomprehensible! Inexcusable! Where was your father's family during all of this?”

Harry felt sick and elated all at once. Here was a relative of his (a great-grandfather? great-great-grandfather? some kind of uncle?), and he was saying that Harry was wanted. If only he hadn't had to get himself stuck in the past to experience this. “There aren't any Potters left,” he said, almost in a daze. “There's just me.”

The man was visibly taken aback, but he pulled himself together quickly. “Well,” he said. “Well, lad, we're still kicking here, and I, for one, plan to be around for a good while yet. You won't be rid of us anytime soon.”

“I don't want to be a burden on your family, sir,” Harry said, suddenly anxious. “I'm nearly seventeen, I could manage.”

“With nothing to your name? Nonsense, lad, you're family.” The man smiled at him.

Harry smiled back. “I'd like that,” he said.

“If you didn't recognize me, do you know anything about your family? Are you Fleamont and Euphemia’s grandchild? Great-grandchild? Or perhaps you're from another branch of the family?”

“Um, my dad's name was James? He was born in 1960, I think. Died in ‘81. I don't know his parents’ names, but I know they took my godfather in when he ran away from home. Sirius said he always had a home with the Potters.” Harry already regretted having to ask his next question. “Who are Fleamont and Euphemia?”

The man frowned. “Fleamont is my only son, and Euphemia is my daughter-in-law. Fleamont will be head of the family someday, though he's already made a name for himself as the inventor of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion.”

There, at least, was a familiar name, and Harry grasped on to it desperately. “My friend Hermione used Sleekeazy’s during our fourth year, for the Yule Ball. It worked really well. Didn't know a Potter made it, though. Don't know a lot of things, I guess.” He shrugged. “Still don't know your name, actually.”

“My apologies, lad. It had quite slipped my mind, what with our conversation. My name is Henry Potter, Harry to friends and family--which you had best remember includes you.”

It was Harry's turn to be caught off guard. “My mum and dad named me after you?” he asked, surprised to realize he was on the edge of tears.

“That is what I'd imagine, yes. Now you understand my reaction when you introduced yourself.”

"Uh, yeah, that, uh. That makes a lot more sense now." Harry gave a weak smile. “So, I should call you Harry? How am I supposed to be related to you, now, if you’re taking me in?”

“You're meant to be my grandson, lad. You may call me Grandpa Harry, if you like.”

Harry thought for a moment. “Fleamont’s son? But aren't I too old for no one to have known I existed?”

“Not if you were born on the wrong side of the sheets and recently lost your mother.”

“Oh. Oh!” Harry blushed. “But what about Euphemia? I don't want to cause any trouble.”

“You're not, lad, don't fret. Euphemia is ten years younger than Fleamont, and her parents didn't approve of the match at first. We're an old family, but not the most prominent or the most wealthy, you see. They only started changing their tune when Sleekeazy's did so well, and then Monty had to convince her to settle down with him. They didn't marry until 1928,” He chuckled. “Led him on a wild chase, our Euphie. You’ll like her.”

“So, I'd have been born…”

“You'd have been born on July 31, 1927, conceived before they were even engaged to be married.”

Harry let out a sigh of relief. “And she’s really okay with taking in her husband’s supposed illegitimate kid?”

“Harry, lad, Fleamont and Euphemia have been married for sixteen years now with no children in sight. People already whisper behind closed doors about Mrs. Fleamont Potter. When I told her about you and about the possible cover story, all she wanted to know was what your name was and what your favorite foods were, so she could have them served for supper.”

That was both heartwarming and confusing. “Did the Unspeakables really tell you my birthday but not my name?”

Grandpa Harry leaned forward conspiratorially. “Haven't you heard? A questionable sense of humor is a requirement for being hired as an Unspeakable.”

Harry grinned at his grandfather. "To be honest, for a while there I wasn't sure if the Unspeakable I was talking to felt any emotions, much less had a sense of humor."

A voice piped up from behind him.

"What a shame," Number 3 deadpanned. "And here I wasted all my best jokes on you."

Harry turned bright red as Grandpa Harry laughed.

"Lad, you'd do well to be more aware of your surroundings."

"I usually am, I swear!"

“Mr. Granger,” Number 3 cut in. It took Harry a moment to remember to respond to the name.

“Yes, sir?”

“Be careful of making judgements based on a history that no longer happened. Judge people based on their own actions, not those of the people you knew. That is the last and best advice I can give you. Don’t forget it.”

Harry frowned, caught off guard. “I’ll remember,” he promised.

Unspeakable Number 3 didn’t answer but led Harry and his newfound grandfather out the door.

* * *

Harry and his namesake took the Floo Network to Potter Manor from the Ministry Atrium. As soon as he stepped out of the fireplace--or more accurately stumbled out of--Harry was enthusiastically greeted by a couple that he assumed must be Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, his father’s parents.

The couple appeared to be middle-aged. Fleamont was tall and gangly, with the Potter hair and a nose just like Harry’s. Euphemia had round spectacles with gold frames and naturally curly light brown hair that Harry obviously hadn’t inherited.

_His grandparents_, Harry realized. More faces he had seen in the Mirror but had never put a name to.

“Well, you’re a Potter if I ever saw one,” Fleamont said with a grin.

“Oh, do tell us your name?” Euphemia added. “And I hope you’re hungry, too. The Unspeakable who visited didn’t know what you enjoyed, so I’ve had our house elf cook a couple choices for you!”

“My name’s Harry, Mrs. Potter,” he answered. “And whatever there is to eat is fine with me, I’m not picky.”

Euphemia waved him off. “Oh, none of that ‘Mrs. Potter’ business, Harry, dear. You’ll make me feel old! Euphemia or Euphie will be just fine. Why don’t we take this to the dinner table? I’m sure you have as many questions as we do, and we’ll want to sit down eventually.”

Harry was slightly overwhelmed but managed a nod as Fleamont winked at him from behind Euphemia.

Fleamont. His new dad. _Fuck_. Harry was more than slightly overwhelmed.

* * *

Dinner was incredible.

Harry had very little experience with family dinners. With the Dursleys, it was rare for him to be allowed to eat at the table with his relatives. At the Burrow, he’d experienced Weasley dinners and loved them, in all their loosely controlled chaos. Dinners at Grimmauld Place were a bit like at the Weasleys, but they involved a rotating assortment of Order members as well as the Weasleys and Sirius--even Snape had dropped by once in a blue moon when he couldn’t avoid it--and the atmosphere of the house left much to be desired.

Eating with the Potters felt like eating with the Weasleys except slightly calmer, and Harry was singled out for attention instead of being one of six children around the table.

Harry learned that Fleamont hated being called “Flea” but didn’t mind “Monty.” Euphemia loved to travel and always found the most obscure items to bring home from wherever she visited. (“It’s a bloody miracle none of us have gotten cursed yet,” Fleamont stage whispered to him.) Grandpa Harry had once called the Minister for Magic a “gormless arse-licker”--on record--during a session of the Wizengamot. Euphemia had been in Ravenclaw, Fleamont and Grandpa Harry were Gryffindors, and they had a cousin of some sort named Charlus who had been sorted into Slytherin and had married a Black.

Of course, his newfound relatives were just as eager to learn about him, and there were three of them to ask questions compared to one of him. When he reluctantly admitted to being a Parselmouth, Fleamont lit up.

“Why, that’s a terribly useful skill!” he exclaimed.

That was so much the opposite of the reaction that Harry had expected that he didn’t respond at first. “...Thank you?”

“It would make it so much easier to collect venom for brewing if you could speak to your supplier, as it were.”

Harry grimaced. “Potions isn't my best subject," he said.

Potions brought to mind Snape, the greasy traitor. Even the year he had studied under Slughorn was now inextricably associated with the Half-Blood Prince. Actually, he supposed Slughorn would be his professor again this year. The man wouldn't be so impressed with his brewing this time around, but he supposed even without his fame being from the Potter family might get him collected.

"Slughorn teaches potions at Hogwarts right now, doesn't he?" he asked out loud.

Fleamont scoffed. Grandpa Harry rolled his eyes, and Euphemia took a very pointed sip of her wine. Harry began to wonder if he should have asked the question after all.

“Horace Slughorn,” Fleamont began. “Is a hack. He’s too busy bootlicking to have a sensible thought about his own profession.”

“He definitely plays favorites,” Harry offered diplomatically.

“Don’t tell me he’s still teaching when my grandchildren are at Hogwarts! No wonder you don’t like Potions.”

“Just my sixth year.” Harry wasn’t eager to go into too much detail. “Before that I had a different professor. He was awful.”

“Worse than Slughorn?” Fleamont asked incredulously.

Like that was any contest. “Not-- he was better at Potions than Slughorn,” Harry admitted. “He favored Slytherin, though, and took points off of Gryffindor for nothing at all. He hated me because he hated my dad, and he killed-- someone. Someone important. Someone who trusted him. He’s a traitor.”

The others obviously came to the conclusion that a change of topic was in order, so Grandpa Harry asked another question. “Well then, lad, which subject is your favorite?”

“Defense,” Harry answered without hesitation. “There’s been a curse on the position for decades, and no one’s lasted as professor for more than a year, but it’s what I’m best at.”

Euphemia frowned. “How have they managed to keep up the quality of education with that kind of turnover?”

Harry shrugged. “They haven’t? I’ve had an incompetent possessed by a Dark Lord, a serial obliviator, an Azkaban escapee polyjuiced as an ex-Auror, a ministry stooge who turned Hogwarts into her own playground, and my old Potions professor.”

“I counted 5?” Fleamont was obviously struggling to keep a calm expression.

“My third year we had Remus Lupin. He was one of my dad’s friends, and he made a great professor.”

“Why did he leave then?” Grandpa Harry asked.

“He got outed as a werewolf. My Potions professor had a grudge.”

“What’s your best spell?” Euphemia asked, changing the subject again.

Harry grinned. “I like _Expelliarmus _the best. It’s very useful. So’s _Expecto Patronum_.”

“You can cast a Patronus?” Fleamont questioned excitedly. “Why don’t you show us?”

“...It’s the summer?” Harry said.

Grandpa Harry laughed. “You aren’t living with Muggles now, lad. The trace won’t find you at Potter Manor.”

“Oh.” Harry wondered why they hadn’t been allowed to use magic to clean Grimmauld Place and felt a pang in his chest. “I might not be able to cast it right now.”

“That’s perfectly understandable, Harry,” Euphemia said. “You won’t know until you try.”

Harry took a deep breath and pulled out his holly wand, suddenly extremely grateful that he’d had it on him when he’d been sent back in time. His photo album, the Firebolt Sirius gave him, those were gone. Shoving those thoughts aside, knowing they would only hurt his chances of casting a corporeal Patronus, he cast about for a proper memory. Thinking about his friends was too complicated now, and Sirius was out for the same reason. In the end, he settled on the memory that had powered his first Patronus at 13: finding out that he was a wizard and going to Hogwarts.

Even in the past, he still had his magic, and he still had Hogwarts. He had more than that, though. Carefully, trying not to think about what had brought him there, he added the memory of Grandpa Harry, Fleamont, and Euphemia at dinner, the way they had accepted him into their family without hesitation.

“Expecto Patronum!” he cast. A glowing stag leapt from his wand and danced around the room to the delight of the Potters. _He’s still with me_, Harry thought, relieved. _Dad’s still with me_.

“He’s magnificent, lad,” Grandpa Harry breathed. Euphemia nodded in agreement, laughing with joy.

“Please tell me you duel,” Fleamont begged.

“Not formally,” Harry admitted. “But I wouldn’t mind learning."

* * *

The Potters put an announcement in the next edition of the Prophet. Harry was skeptical, having been burned too many times by the newspaper, but the final product was much milder than it would have been if Rita Skeeter had gotten her hands on it.

_[Mr. Fleamont Potter, inventor of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, would like to announce his son, Harry James Potter, aged sixteen. Master Potter is the son of Muggle-born witch Lily Granger, who was employed by the Department of Mysteries until her recent untimely death. Unspeakable Granger held sole custody of Master Potter until her death, and the Potter family asks that the young man being given time to adjust to his new circumstances before he formally enters society later this summer_.

We here at The Daily Prophet eagerly await Master Potter’s introduction. I am sure it will be of great interest to Wizarding Britain's young witches!]

The Potters kept Harry busy for much of the summer. Fleamont taught Harry the rules and strategies of formal dueling, which he enjoyed, and reviewed basic Potions theory, which Harry did not enjoy.

Euphemia took him shopping to replace what he had lost. Harry ended up with sore feet and more clothes than he had ever owned in his life or knew what to do with. She also dragged him around to introduce him at whichever society functions they couldn't afford to avoid, which was worse than the shopping.

In the evenings, Harry sat with his grandfather in his study and learned how to play chess and, on one notable occasion, poker. Euphemia caught them, though, and gave them a lecture on the evils of gambling, which Harry was surprised to find the usually adventurous witch had strong opinions about. Grandpa Harry crossed his eyes at him whenever Euphemia wouldn’t notice, which lasted until Harry couldn’t contain his laughter and set Grandpa Harry off. Euphemia gave up lecturing and laughed too when both of them crossed their eyes at her together.

Harry thought this might be what it was like to have a family. Fleamont and Euphemia were still Fleamont and Euphemia, but he thought that--someday--he might be able to call them something else.

Later in the summer, Grandpa Harry insisted on bringing Harry to Hogwarts. It was a necessary part of the ruse, as Harry Potter knew Hogwarts like the back of his hand, but Harry Granger had never seen it. Pretending a lesser familiarity would be much easier than pretending not to know the castle at all.

Accordingly, one morning in early August Harry and his grandfather arrived at the gates of Hogwarts. The Deputy Headmaster met them there.

Harry had known that Dumbledore was already a professor, but he hadn’t expected to encounter him so soon. Seeing Dumbledore like this--young, healthy, and full of life--was almost unbearable. His beard was shorter, and a vibrant red.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir!" he choked out.

Grandpa Harry sighed. There was no way Dumbledore would let this go; Harry's emotional response to seeing him had been too obvious. "Albus, do we have time for a detour to your office before speaking with Armando?"

Dumbledore nodded curtly. "That would be much appreciated."

As they made their way to Dumbledore’s office, Harry could feel the professor’s eyes on him. He focused on watching his feet rather than risk making eye contact with his old mentor. This strategy had the unforeseen effect of leaving him to be way more surprised than he should have been to have ended up at Professor McGonagall’s office instead of the Headmaster’s office. It wasn’t Professor McGonagall’s office, after all; it was the office she’d inherited as the new Transfiguration professor and Head of Gryffindor when Professor Dumbledore had become headmaster. These days, Dumbledore held those positions.

Harry half expected to be offered a lemon drop, but when the three of them sat down, Dumbledore and Grandpa Harry got straight to business. Grandpa Harry explained the situation in the broadest of terms, telling Professor Dumbledore how Harry had truly found his way into the Potters’ care. Harry was grateful to him; he didn’t really feel up to explaining at the moment.

He still didn’t dare look up at this strange young Dumbledore until Grandpa Harry finished explaining and Dumbledore asked him a question. “And how do you intend to deal with the situation, Mr. Potter?”

"The Unspeakables told me it was best if I didn't interact with people based on what I know of them from my world, since those things haven't happened yet and might never happen." He laughed bitterly. "I'm doing a _fantastic_ job of that so far."

Professor Dumbledore's eyes were kinder now. Harry would normally balk at the pity, but this--Professor Dumbledore and Hogwarts--was familiar and comforting. They were different, yes, but he'd lived with 'different' since he'd been thrown into the past. He'd take any familiar comforts he could get.

"I've not sure I can tell you what happened, sir," he finished.

"Would you permit me to take a guess? We need not get into all of the details."

"Alright."

"You knew me before. Judging by the strength of your reaction earlier and what my age would be when Fleamont Potter has grandchildren, I should think we were either very close or I had passed away. Am I correct?"

Harry nodded. "You were my headmaster, but there were… circumstances that made that relationship closer than normal. You were… he was… almost like a grandfather to me, when I didn't have anyone else." He furiously suppressed the tears that threatened to spill over. "He… you… died at the end of my sixth year. This past year. It was sudden… and violent."

"Still fresh, then."

"Yeah." Harry shrugged.

"Well, if you need someone to speak to during the term, you are welcome to come speak to me in my office.” Dumbledore offered with a smile. “I always appreciate company for Sunday tea."

Harry smiled in return. "Thank you, Professor. I'd like that."

"And might I be seeing you in my house?"

"Of course!” Harry said. “Gryffindor is my home."

As they left Dumbledore’s office and continued to Headmaster Dippet’s, Harry was feeling much better. He had missed his Dumbledore’s funeral when he fell back through time, and, after he got over the initial shock, seeing this Dumbledore gave him some of the closure he didn’t realize he needed.

Armando Dippet was an elderly wizard, nearly completely bald. Harry wouldn’t have been able to describe him before the meeting, but now that he’d seen the headmaster, he recognized the wizard from one of the portraits hanging in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office. Dippet had obviously been filled in on the details of Harry’s falsified history, as he greeted him with kind words of condolence.

“So you are Harry’s namesake, then!” Dippet exclaimed. (And added, in an aside, “Such a fine young man, Harry, you should be proud!”) “I am delighted to have you here as a student for your final year of study, although I am deeply saddened that our meeting was precipitated by your mother’s passing. Please accept my sincere condolences.”

“Thank you,” Harry said politely.

“Now, I assume you are familiar with the House System here, Mr. Potter? Very good.” He pulled out the Sorting Hat. “I’ve talked it over with your grandfather, and we’ve determined that it would be best to sort you now. It’s tradition to sort during the feast, but you’re hardly a traditional student. I can’t imagine you’d like to stand in line with a batch of first years as the whole school watches.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, sir.” Harry replied.

“No point in waiting about, then,” Dippet continued. “Here, sit down, and we’ll sort you right away.” He gestured to a chair with maroon upholstery.

Harry obediently sat in the chair as the familiar hat was placed on top of his head. Just before it slipped over his eyes, he saw Professor Dumbledore mouth the words “good luck.”

A voice rang out in the darkness. "_I see I gave you a choice six years ago_."

"Yeah, and I chose Gryffindor, so just shout that out, and we can move on."

"_It's not as simple as that, Mr. Potter. I do believe I may have done you a disservice, offering you that choice_."

"Bullshit. I'm a Gryffindor!"

"_And have they always stood by you_?"

"We've had our ups and downs, but I wouldn't trade my friends for anything!"

"_And what of the Slytherins? What do you think of them_?"

"They're evil little snakes, up to their ears in the Dark Arts! Voldemort's a baby Dark Lord even now, and Slytherin House is a glorified recruiting pool to him! Malfoy let fucking Death Eaters into the school, and Professor Snape killed Professor Dumbledore! He trusted him, and he showed his true colors in the end, didn't he?"

"_They're all evil? Even at eleven_?"

Harry clenched his jaw but didn't respond.

"_Were you evil at eleven, when I wanted to sort you there_?"

"No! And I chose Gryffindor instead."

"_Being a Gryffindor does not make you morally superior to three-fourths of this school, Mr. Potter_," the Hat scolded. "_Not even to one-fourth. It merely shows what you value_."

Harry began to protest, but the Hat wasn't finished.

"_The world I've seen in your head worries me. Hogwarts is not meant to be so divided. It's not so bad, yet, but the potential is there. Therefore, I am sending you where you need to be, not where you wish to be. And that is why you shall finish your schooling in _SLYTHERIN!"

Harry tore the hat off his head angrily, treating it with far less reverence than he had in years past.

Dippet clapped his hands excitedly. If he had noticed that Harry was less than pleased with his new House, he wasn't showing it.

"Well," Grandpa Harry said. "Well, lad, this is a bit of a surprise, isn't it?"

"I'm sure young Mr. Potter will settle in just fine in September,” Dippet said. “In the meantime, Albus, would you be willing to familiarize him with the castle? He'll be much busier as a NEWT student than the first years having to adjust to the castle on top of their work."

Harry shot a pleading look at Professor Dumbledore, hoping against hope that his sorting wouldn't make the man think differently of him.

"I would be glad to, Armando. Harry--" Harry straightened instinctively before realizing Dumbledore meant his grandfather. "--will you be joining us?"

"Not unless young Harry wishes it. I've been meaning to speak to the Headmaster for a good while now, and I'm sure we'd bore an active young man to death. Better to have done at once. What'd you say to that, lad?" Grandpa Harry asked with a wink.

"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore and I will be fine," Harry replied.

"You're in good hands, young man,” the headmaster assured him. “Professor Dumbledore serves as Deputy Head of this school as well as Head of Gryffindor and Professor of Transfiguration. He might not be your Head of House, but he'll be more than able to answer any questions you may have."

Much of the castle was already familiar to Harry, of course. Not much had changed in fifty years, but he enjoyed seeing it, and he enjoyed listening to the bits of trivia Professor Dumbledore shared with him. It was only when they were visiting the grounds, away from painted ears, that Dumbledore broached the subject of his sorting.

"So after six years in Gryffindor, the Hat decided to place you in Slytherin."

"It wanted me there when I was eleven,” Harry said. “I asked it not to."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "And it listened to you?"

Harry frowned. "Yes? It said I would be great in Slytherin but that if I truly didn't want to go there, Gryffindor would also suit me. I didn't know much about the Houses, then, but I knew my parents were Gryffindors and that they'd been murdered by a Slytherin. Also I met a prat in Diagon Alley who had gotten sorted into Slytherin, and I didn't want to be in the same House as him. It did ask me if I was sure."

"The Hat keeps its own counsel, generally. May I ask if it explained its reasoning now?"

"It said that I needed to be in Slytherin. That the Hogwarts I came from was too divided." He shrugged miserably.

"Do you agree?"

"What?"

"That Hogwarts is too divided."

"Well, it's not very united, that's for sure. But the Slytherins are nasty, evil gits," Harry declared and then realized he was speaking to an authority figure. "Er... professor."

"And do you feel you belong in Slytherin, Mr. Potter?"

Harry hesitated. "We had this same conversation in my second year, you know, only I was the one who asked then. You told me that what mattered were our choices, not our abilities. But I didn't get a choice this time."

"We always have choices, my boy. You are in Slytherin now, yes, but it does not follow that you must be a… what was it? 'Nasty, evil git'?" His eyes twinkled.

"That… does help, sir. But it doesn't solve all my problems."

"Oh? And may I offer my assistance with any of those?"

"I was hoping to be able to avoid--" he broke off awkwardly. "...some people."

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about your housemates or your rooming arrangements. Your roommates this year will be Mr. Nott, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Lestrange, and Mr. Black."

That's practically a "who's who" of stuck up Death Eater pricks, Harry thought.

"Not Riddle?" he asked. "But then I guess he's Head Boy, isn't he."

Dumbledore looked down his nose. "You are acquainted with Tom?"

It was all Harry could do to avoid bursting out into hysterical laughter. "We've… met."

"As Mr. Riddle will be sleeping in the Head Boy's quarters, you shall be sleeping in his old bed in the Slytherin dorm."

"This just keeps getting better," Harry muttered.

"You would tell me if you feel there is something I should know?"

"I'll try, Professor, but you remember what the Unspeakables said. There's still a chance he might not turn out the way he did before. I don't think there's much of a chance of that, personally, but I'd like to at least confirm some things first."

"Very well then, Mr. Potter. And even though you may not be one of my lions, do remember that my door is always open to you."

"I'll remember," he promised.

All he had to do now was keep an eye on baby Voldemort, try to avoid the Junior Death Eaters as much as possible, and survive his seventh year. This should be easy.

Funny how hard it is to lie to oneself at times.

* * *

As it turned out, the only member of the family who was truly upset over the result of Harry’s sorting was Harry himself. He wasn’t the first member of the Potter family to be sorted into Slytherin. He wasn’t even the only Slytherin Potter alive in 1944, although he hadn’t met Charlus yet.

When Harry confessed his fears about rooming with the people who had raised the Death Eaters of his day, Fleamont took him aside and taught him how to ward his bed so that no one could disturb him in his sleep. When he agonized over what to do about Tom Riddle, Euphemia kindly but firmly told him that the fate of the Wizarding World was not his responsibility and that, at any rate, the Voldemort he’d told them about hadn’t started a war until the 1970s. Harry should worry about his NEWTs first and Riddle second, if he had to think about him at all. Grandpa Harry taught him how to cheat at cards, which he assured Harry was a vital skill for a Slytherin to possess.

The rest of the summer passed quickly. Living with Grandpa Harry, Fleamont, and Euphemia was the most normal family experience he had ever had. Even when he had gotten to stay with Sirius at Number 12, they hadn’t been able to go on family outings. There was always the overhanging shadow of the war, arguments over how much Harry should be told. And even that had been taken away from him before he had ended up in the past.

He would always miss Ron and Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna, the Weasleys, Remus… but with the effects of this decade’s war confined to Europe and the Muggle world, the summer of 1944 was the most idyllic in Harry’s memory. He could even forget sometimes that he wasn’t Harry Granger, Fleamont Potter’s illegitimate child.

He could forget about the looming spectre of Tom Riddle.

Still, September 11th snuck up on him before he knew it. On Platform 9 ¾, he let Euphemia fuss over him. It was like having Mrs. Weasley to see him off, except this time he had Euphie all to herself. “You’re sure you’ve gotten everything, Harry?”

“I have more things that I could ever use, Euphie! You’ve all been so good to me.”

Fleamont chuckled and ruffled Harry’s already messy hair. “You’re our son, Harry. It’s the least we can do! We have seventeen years to make up for after all.”

Harry felt his eyes well up with tears even as smiled. When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he looked up to see Grandpa Harry. “Well, lad, if you happen to think of something else you need, just send us a letter.”

“Send us a letter, anyway!” Euphemia said. “I want to know all about what you get up to at Hogwarts! I want to hear about your classes, your friends.” She winked. “Who you fancy.”

“Euphie!” Harry protested as he felt a blush creep up his neck.

“I promise we won’t tease you too bad!” Fleamont added, and Grandpa Harry laughed.

Behind them, the train whistle sounded.

“Ah, well, there you are, lad. Best be off with you.”

After another round of hugs, shoulder pats, and hair ruffling, Harry jumped on the train. He found a compartment with a few incoming first years, somewhere he was unlikely to run into any of his fellow seventh years before the Feast. As the train began to pull out of the station, he opened up a window and leaned out. Catching the Potters’ attention, he called out to them.

“Goodbye, Mum! Bye, Dad! Bye, Grandpa! See you in December!” Harry grinned hard enough that his cheeks hurt and waved like an idiot. On the platform, he could see that Fleamont had his arm around Euphemia, who was waving just as hard as he was. Grandpa Harry was laughing so hard he had to bend over and catch his breath.

If only he was wearing a different color tie, Harry would be downright optimistic about this next school year.

Harry’s plan to avoid any and all conflict by hiding among the first years was an unparalleled success. He spent the train ride telling increasingly ridiculous stories loosely based on the life he had left behind. Having to be sure not to contradict the impression of homeschooled half-blood Harry Granger was a challenge, but it was a welcome distraction. When the trolley lady came around, he bought a little of everything to share with the compartment. He figured they deserved a treat for how much they’d helped him, even if they didn’t realize what they’d done.

A part of him was rather annoyed at how much of a coward he was being, but it was outvoted by the part of him that wanted to go as long as possible, by any means possible, without dealing with the teenage Dark Lord.

He was beginning to see why the hat might have put him in Slytherin, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was okay with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Fleamont's rivalry with Slughorn is inspired by this post by lullabyknell: https://lullabyknell.tumblr.com/post/182875233674/i-cant-remember-how-much-slughorn-talked-about.


End file.
